High functioning sociopath
by JasNutter
Summary: Sherlock : as seen by Mycroft.


Mycroft remembered almost nothing of his childhood before the age of seven – before his dear little brother had entered it, very quietly, staring up at him with solemn green eyes. He had been dreading, like most jealous siblings do, the arrival of the little bundle of pale skin and dark hair. He dreaded the crying he had been warned about, the need to share his home, his toys, his mummy.

After months of living with young Sherlock, however, Mycroft realized his worrying had been wholly unnecessary. Having been very peculiar, even as a baby; Sherlock seemed to have no interest in screaming (besides during the dreaded bath times), his toys, or his mummy. Only small whimpers were heard when he wished to be fed or changed, and he squirmed, twisting his little body desperately whenever Mummy held him, until she let him go.

In fact, Sherlock seemed to be interested almost nothing besides crawling about and grabbing things in his tiny fists, a look of awe permanently etched onto his small face. Mycroft could clearly recall, chuckling as he did so, a certain event when Sherlock had somehow managed to crawl out of his crib and all the way down the large staircase. After almost an hour of screaming, crying and frantically searching for the curly little head, they'd found him sitting on a side table near the front door, flicking a light switch and giggling gleefully as the light bulb flashed on and off. The glee didn't last for very long, as, to Sherlock's very obvious dismay, mummy picked him up and sobbed hysterically in relief. Mycroft, to this day, couldn't fathom how on earth the toddler had climbed onto the table in the first place.

He was special – Mycroft was aware of the fact. Everyone who knew Sherlock was aware of it. He could walk before Mycroft had been able to. At the age when Mycroft had been forming words, he could form sentences. To say he wasn't jealous would have been a massive lie. There were, however, more facets to Mycroft's feelings towards his brother than jealousy. There had always been, and still was, a nature of fascination with which Mycroft regarded Sherlock. He was completely dissimilar to anyone Mycroft had ever come across, and he had acknowledged the fact at the age of ten, when the three year old Sherlock had scraped his knees and instead of bursting into tears like an ordinary little human being, he'd struggled out of his cooing mother's arms, flailing his little arms as he did so, and stared at the bleeding knee with such a degree of curiosity and wonder that Mycroft was unable to hold back a surprised laugh, for which, of course, he was reprimanded.

Most saw that Sherlock was unusual, but Mycroft knew he was among the very few people who saw Sherlock as he was. There had been sociopathic tendencies from very young, and although Mycroft hadn't the faintest idea what sociopathic tendencies were at the time, he'd noticed and duly noted these behavioral patterns, as it were. When he revisited his mental Sherlock-behavioral-catalogues some years later, he had discovered that what Sherlock lacked in empathy, he made up for in awareness. Sherlock was, always had been, _incredibly_ aware.

He'd been fourteen at the time, returning home from a month long vacation with his grand-parents, seven year old Sherlock in tow, trying vainly to get the stubborn little boy to let the highly unusual looking bug he'd collected for another one of his 'exsperiments' go. Their mother waited at the large gates, excitedly rushing forward to gather both boys in her arms.

"Sherlock darling!" she'd cooed down at her queer little boy. "Did you miss mummy?"

Sherlock had looked solemnly up from the jar clutched in his hands. "No, mummy", he had said, a slight look of confusion adorning his very cute features. Noticing he'd somehow upset his mother, the little boy had quickly held up the jar.

"Look, I made a friend, though", he said, shoving the bug in his poor, bewildered mother's face.

This, obviously, wasn't met with a very happy response and Mycroft noticed Sherlock always put on a smile for mummy after that, always answering her "do you love Mummy?"s with "yes, Mummy"s. He never saw Sherlock show mummy an experiment again and seemed to put up a façade, Mycroft felt, around mummy – around everyone, really, building a picture of himself as a normal young boy with an exceptionally high IQ level. The façade often crumbled around his big brother, whose sleeve he would sometimes clutch and say, his face scrunched up in frustration, "People are so _strange_, Mycwroft."

Sherlock was aware of other people's emotions, yes, and he was able to respond, if he wanted to, in an appropriate manner, but that, Mycroft knew, didn't mean emotions didn't confuse Sherlock. While he was scarily adept at manipulation and didn't seem to have any qualms when it came to using people around him, he wasn't devoid of feelings, and his own feelings befuddled him more than anyone else's. And, as Mycroft had imagined it would be, the first time Sherlock fell in love, the effects were disastrous.

25, bored with the world and with all his incomprehensible emotions wounded with a heart break, Sherlock barely bothered to maintain the veneer of a charming, handsome man, snapping at everyone around him, spiraling into drugs. He hardly tolerated anyone, let alone trust them, and Mycroft's constant surveillance over him after an episode of a nearly fatal overdose and six months of rehabilitation had brought him to resent his older brother's intervention. But Mycroft never ceased his intervening and his sleeve would always be offered to Sherlock to clutch when the world got too strange.

"She called me a _psychopath,_ Mycroft", the almost 26 year old had huffed, sitting on Mycroft's carpet and leaning on the wall of his large apartment, absentmindedly clutching one sleeve of the long over coat Mycroft had given him, which he was now wrapped up in. "_Why?_" He'd questioned, frustrated.

"You're not a psychopath, Sherlock", Mycroft had comforted, wishing he had a way getting rid of the pesky emotions so they could no longer harm his dear brother. "You're a high functioning sociopath. She needs to do her research."

He never found out exactly how much those words had meant to Sherlock.

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**The cover image I've used is done by a friend, chichikamalu on tumblr. **

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